


Reservations

by AnnetheCatDetective



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And There Were Consequences, In Which A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19266883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: There's some competition for Aziraphale and Crowley's usual table at the Ritz...





	Reservations

          The thing about a Miracle—not an ordinary, everyday miracle, but a real, serious impossible Miracle—is that it’s a one-off by nature. It can’t happen twice. Even across multiple universes, some things aren’t meant to be replicated. And when they are, things happen.

 

          The thing that is happening to Aziraphale, currently, is that his and Crowley’s usual table at the Ritz, the table which is always free for them, is taken.

 

\---/-/---

 

          “I don’t understand.” He frowns. “That’s our table. It’s always open.”

 

          “Must have forgot.” Crowley shrugs. Reservations were usually his department, though now and then Aziraphale takes the job on—Aziraphale usually prefers to make a phone call, but even without one, they always have their table. He gives Aziraphale’s hip a squeeze, arm slung around him. “Or I must have been _distracted_. Come on, angel, we’ll get a table in the garden. They’re serving those oysters you like…”

 

          “Tempting as that is.” He frowns, though it softens at Crowley’s eyebrow waggle. “No, today is a special day. _Thirty years_ , Crowley. I want our table, we’re only in London for the weekend. I’ll just tell the gentlemen there’s been a mistake.”

 

          “Suppose there hasn’t been?” Crowley says, though it’s mostly for the sake of saying it. He’s not about to stop Aziraphale freeing their table up by nefarious means. It just bothers him, something about it. Watching two strange men toast to something, and laugh, and lean in to talk, at their table…

 

          “Of course there has been, you wouldn’t forget. Not today. Not on an _anniversary_.”

 

          “Mm.” He nods, ambling after Aziraphale. Not their wedding anniversary—they’ve never had a wedding, but they’ve been married enough, and for nine hundred and sixty nine years longer than they’ve been… well, the kind of married couple that has sex and lives together. This is the anniversary of the day they decided to take that particular plunge, and while their marriage anniversary could happen anywhere, they’d started this phase of their relationship at the Ritz and the Ritz is where they celebrate it. Now that they don’t live in the city, they actually give themselves a night in the hotel.

 

          The strangers at their table are an odd match. Then again, he supposes he’s one to talk. He moves to stand behind Aziraphale, as he comes around to address the blond in the… get-up.

 

          “Excuse me, my dear fellow, but you look a reasonable gentleman.” Aziraphale says, and he’s not putting his full angelic influence behind it— _yet_ —but he’s on his way there even without any ethereal powers. “And I do hate to be a bother, but you see, I do believe this is our table.”

 

          “Oh. Er. I don’t _think_ so.” The man frowns, and he turns towards his companion—a man who almost attains style, in Crowley’s opinion, but seems to be trying too hard. Sunglasses with sides, though, that’s a good idea. “This _is_ our table, isn’t it?”

 

          “Of course it is.” The companion rolls himself up out of his slouch. “Piss off.”

 

          “I do beg your pardon!” Aziraphale huffs. “I am _trying_ to be polite—“

 

          “You’re interrupting our tea. Paying good money to be here, not to be interrupted by you and your _friend_ here. Or did you pay good money for—“

 

          “ _Really_ , now!” Aziraphale cuts him off, reaching back for Crowley’s arm. “My _husband_ reserved this table specifically. It is our anniversary. I know he reserved this table because this is our table, it’s where we—It has always been our table, and we sat right there, right where you’re sat, the day we—And I shall _not_ have you spoiling our anniversary! I _will_ go and get someone.”

 

           “Angel.” Crowley strokes his arm, but he is not in the mood to be calmed. He is not in the mood to eat out in the garden bar, where they can’t get the same menu. He is not in the mood for the rock oysters, he wants scones. He wants sandwiches. He wants the lovely tea which strangers are currently enjoying at _their_ table. “I’ll make it right later.”

 

          “You can’t.” He frowns at him. He knows Crowley means he’ll do something awful and inconveniencing, but that doesn’t solve their problem.

 

          “I’ll make sure we have the table for dinner.” Crowley promises, two fingers under his chin to tilt him to make eye contact. “We can do the six course dinner.”

  

          “That’s not the point, the point is I know you didn’t forget to reserve our table for our anniversary.” He shakes his head, and turns his attention back to the blond gentleman, who at least seems nervously, silently apologetic for his friend, hands twisting in front of his chest. This time, when he speaks to him, he _pushes_. “I’m certain we can resolve this little matter without any need for further unpleasantness, but you see, we simply _can’t_ rearrange the date, it’s an anniversary. And I know—“

 

          Most people, by now, would be falling over themselves to agree to make things right, or if not, they would at least be politely and sympathetically listening, needing more time and work to get there, but this man—no, both of them—both of these men now stare at Aziraphale with undisguised horror.

 

          “No.” The blond whispers. Grips at the edge of the table until his knuckles are white, tears in wide green eyes. “No, don’t.”

 

          “My dear boy, I—I really needn’t make trouble with management if you’re so worried.” Aziraphale frowns.

 

          “Don’t, you let us go. What are you doing here, now? You let us _go_.”

 

          “You go to management if you want to.” The redhead snarls—snarls at him!—leaning forward like he’s ready to spring. “I’ll fight every last one of you if I have to. Thought you learned your lesson, but if you want to go an honest round with me—“

 

          “I—I don’t—“ Aziraphale takes a slight step back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, there’s no need for any of that, I’ve said. But I don’t understand what’s wrong here.”

 

          “Oh.” Crowley whispers. “ _Shit_.”

 

\---/-/---

 

            Aziraphale has never been so gloriously happy. He wishes he knew how to say it, how to tell Crowley the reason for his happiness… how to say everything. Last night, he’d naively hoped that things would just be different now. Now that they’re free. But…

 

            Things are better, yes. It just isn’t the magic change he’d thought it might be. He doesn’t know how to change things, when he’s run from them for six thousand years.

 

            And yet, that does not take away from the happiness he does feel. Crowley is so good to him, and all the things he was afraid of before, he doesn’t have to fear anymore, but how far is he allowed to go? Did he lose his chance at something more? But what else could he have done?

 

            And yet, and yet, and yet…

 

            “Perhaps—“ He begins, and stops when he sees Crowley tense. It’s nearly imperceptible, but he knows him so well. So well and yet never well enough… He turns, to see what had tensed him, and sees two men making a beeline straight for their table. “Oh…”

 

            There’s an older man, not quite Aziraphale’s height, stout. Everything about his appearance from the neck down is neat and precise. He’s wearing a very smart tartan suit, actually, which Aziraphale rather wishes he had the confidence to pull off, but it’s a very _bold_ tartan, isn’t it? Perhaps it is time to update his wardrobe just slightly… but he doesn’t know a suit is the answer. His shoes are white and spotless.

 

            When he approaches the table properly, it’s clear to see he’s fastidious about his hands, as well.

 

            From the neck up, he’s a bit less put together. His hair is most certainly too long. Blond and pale like his own but… greyer, somehow, without really being grey. He might be fifty-five or so, it’s difficult to say—the words ‘well-preserved’ float to mind. Blue eyes, and a face which might have had a strong bone structure hidden somewhere in it, but which seemed to be made up mostly of rosy cheeks. Brow drawn as if to say ‘oh that is unfortunate’. A small, pink cupid’s bow of a mouth pursed in a moue Aziraphale has learned to dread on customers, the kind of look that says ‘I have several questions and don’t wish to leave without what I want’.

 

            His posture is good. He moves with a certain grace and he folds his hands before his belly, poised, and tilts his head just so, and Aziraphale does not want to deal with this while he’s trying to have lunch with Crowley, but… he supposes he has very little choice in the matter. He wonders if an admiring comment on the green carnation at the man’s lapel would smooth things?

 

            In sharp contrast, there’s a man not more than thirty-five—and perhaps as much as ten years younger than that—who slouches behind him. No tie, Aziraphale notes—though strictly speaking, he supposes Crowley doesn’t wear a proper one either, and he doesn’t chide him. The young man wears dark glasses and a red suit, over a black shirt. Rather loud, he thinks, rather flashy. Like some sort of… he doesn’t hardly know.

 

          “Excuse me, my dear fellow, but you look a reasonable gentleman. And I do hate to be a bother, but you see, I do believe this is our table.” The man says.

 

          “Oh. Er. I don’t _think_ so.” He says. No one has ever tried to take a table Crowley had arranged before… All the times they’d met at restaurants, in all the years they’d been meeting, no one had ever. He looks helplessly to him, and feels a relief no words can encompass at the way Crowley sits forward, all cool confidence. “This _is_ our table, isn’t it?”

 

          “Of course it is. Piss off.” He adds, to the strangers, which is a bit much… Aziraphale had only wanted them to understand the table was spoken for and to go away and… and not be offended, but just… just not be their problem anymore.

 

          “I do beg your pardon! I am _trying_ to be polite—“

 

          “You’re interrupting our tea.” Crowley says, looking them both over. The stuffy one and his bloody gigolo. He and Aziraphale finally get to relax, to go out with nothing hanging over their heads, and this is when someone tries to get his table out from under him? He smirks, and moves in for the conversational kill. “Paying good money to be here, not to be interrupted by you and your _friend_ here. Or did you pay good money for—“

 

          “ _Really_ , now!” The man says, scandalized, but not into leaving. Stauncher than Crowley had given him credit for, it seems. “My _husband_ reserved this table specifically. It is our anniversary. I know he reserved this table because this is our table, it’s where we—It has always been our table, and we sat right there, right where you’re sat, the day we—And I shall _not_ have you spoiling our anniversary! I _will_ go and get someone.”

 

          Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say, pastes on the best ‘please don’t do that’ smile he can. He’s never been good at that smile, he’s not sure why he bothers. His attempts range from irritated to terrified, always more rictus than not.

 

          “Angel. I’ll make it right later.” The husband says, and Crowley and Aziraphale both feel a slight… squirm, deep inside, at the familiar endearment on unfamiliar lips.

 

          “You can’t.”

 

          “I’ll make sure we have the table for dinner. We can do the six course dinner.” The husband entices, with a soft sibilant lisp. Aziraphale thinks he would be enticed by such an offer. Not by such a youthful face, he doesn’t suppose, but… the young man has attractively sharp features. Hair glossy and dark, carelessly tumbling over just one side of his brow. He tries to imagine being a human, being attracted to just people, and still doesn’t know if he would be attracted to this one. He knows he would be attracted to the six course dinner, though.

 

          “That’s not the point, the point is I know you didn’t forget to reserve our table for our anniversary.” The man says, and then he turns to Aziraphale, and he isn’t a man, oh _fuck_ , oh no, he isn’t a man at _all_. Ethereal force buffets him with every word, but he no longer hears the words, he only _feels_ what the stranger _is_ , an angel. “I’m certain we can resolve this little matter without any need for further unpleasantness, but you see, we simply _can’t_ rearrange the date, it’s an anniversary. And I know—“

 

          “No. No, don’t.” Aziraphale pleads, but his voice is gone. And then he does pick a word out, ‘management’, and he wants to weep, to scream, to rend his clothing and beat his breast, hasn’t he done enough? “Don’t, you let us go. What are you doing here, now? You let us _go_.”

 

          He can feel Crowley beside him, like he’s coiled and ready to strike even in his usual shape.

 

          “You go to management if you want to. I’ll fight every last one of you if I have to. Thought you learned your lesson, but if you want to go an honest round with me—“ He threatens, and Aziraphale leans towards him. They can’t do this, not here… not at the Ritz! Not when… not when everything was all right at last!

 

          “I—I don’t— I don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, there’s no need for any of that, I’ve said. But I don’t understand what’s wrong here.” The angel says, giving them room.

 

          “Oh. _Shit_.” The angel’s husband hisses.

 

\---/-/---

 

            The thing about Miracles is, they aren’t always intentional. Aziraphale and Crowley had caused one once quite by accident, as they sat at their table at the Ritz, and quietly slid their hands towards each other across the table, and said the words they had been holding back for so many years. They had understood certain things, they had even joked now and then about how they were more married than most married couples, but had always pulled back from the obvious conclusion.

 

            Each had privately considered the marriage a real thing, since 1,020 AD. They just hadn’t kissed before the Ritz. The first one felt like coming home.

 

            In that moment, when they confessed all and allowed themselves a new kind of closeness, they had let an impossible thing happen, and the ripples moved ever outward, through the folds in the universe.

 

            Well. Universe _s_.

 

            Aziraphale and Crowley had also let an impossible thing happen at the Ritz—this Aziraphale and Crowley who sit there now. They had not spoken explicitly of love. Their hands had not met across the table. There had been no first kiss in the offing. But they had gone to great lengths for each other. They had strove, and suffered, and felt a monumental shift in the course of their existence, their shared existence. Just because it isn’t spoken, doesn’t mean it isn’t worth a Miracle.

 

            The problem was only that it was the same impossible thing, and in that moment, lines were crossed, and someone picking up the cosmic receiver in one universe got a bit of conversation from the next universe over.

 

            That bit of conversation just happened to be Crowley and Aziraphale.

 

\---/-/---

 

            ‘Oh shit’ was, perhaps, an appropriate enough sentiment, but Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at it just the same.

 

            The sudden surge of demonic energy was unmistakable, though—When he had gone to make the suggestion, it pushed back, not from the frightened blond man, but his dining companion. It’s so like Crowley’s that Aziraphale is thrown by it, and thrown by everything the two have said, by the idea that the… demon… might wish to fight the m’aitre d’? He’d only wanted his table, why are they so afraid? He hadn’t even known he was facing down a demon until that moment.

 

            “I’m really not here on… _their_ behalf.” He gestures meaningfully upward, his focus turning to the demon. “If you’re not here on… _theirs_?”

 

            “Yeah. Retired.” Crowley adds, with a faux-calm, drawing a little closer. “I think we’d better talk… privately.”

 

            Time stops, and Crowley grabs at Aziraphale’s arm.

 

            “Did you do that?” He asks. “I didn’t do that.”

 

            The other demon raises his hand, slouching into his seat, but he’s still bowsting-taut and ready for a fight.

 

            Aziraphale summons up two more chairs, feeling it might be more comfortable were he not looming over the poor things.

 

            “If you want to talk, talk fast. When time starts up again, I’ve got nothing to say to you. Not after you tried to kill him.”

 

            “I haven’t tried to kill anyone.” Aziraphale does try not to pout—sends the wrong message. He hasn’t even contemplated it in thirty years, and even then… well, he’d not had much stomach for it. “Why would I try to? Are you also a demon?”

 

            The blond chokes back a sob, hurt glittering in his eyes, hand going to his breast. “Of _course_ I’m not—I—I mean, I—I don’t… I don’t know _what_ I am now…”

 

            “Don’t be stupid—You know what you are.” The demon presses, just barely shifting towards him. “Nothing’s changed on that front, angel.”

 

            _Angel_. He couldn’t be… and yet, that would explain his terror.

 

            “It’s like we’ve said. I’m rather what you’d call retired from the business.” Aziraphale says, and tries to look reassuring. “I only wanted our table, for our anniversary.”

 

            “Oh.” The angel says, in the lost tones of one desperately trying to steer a conversation towards pleasant waters, against a very strong current, and with disagreeable headwinds. “How long have you been together?”

 

            “Thirty years.” He smiles a little more warmly.

 

            “Give or take nine hundred and seventy.” Crowley rounds up. They’re close.

 

            “Ah. Congratulations.”

 

            “Angel.” The demon huffs. “So you’re not here for us? This is all just some… cosmic accident?”

 

            “Yes. I’m hardly who they’d send after—well. No, I’m hardly who they’d send. Er… if you are what I think you are, no… That is, I don’t know who you are.”

 

            “Hushed it up that quick, have they?” The demon laughs mirthlessly.

 

            “Aziraphale.” The other angel says listlessly, smoothing out the tablecloth and staring down, and Aziraphale startles. “Principality.” And then his lip wobbles. “Traitor.”

 

            “You have me at a disadvantage.” He says. Had he been recognized on reputation, when he’d suggested he was sympathetic to an angel and a demon…?

 

\---/-/---

 

            “You have me at a disadvantage.” The angel says, and Aziraphale’s eyes snap up.

 

            “What?”

 

            “You know my name. But I don’t know yours.”

 

            “N-no. I just told you. _Aziraphale_.”

 

            “That’s not possible.” His reassuring smile falters. “ _My_ name is Aziraphale.”

 

            The angel’s husband’s jaw drops.

 

            It keeps dropping.

 

            “What’sss going on here?” He rakes a hand through his hair, nervous. “Angels don’t reuse names.”

 

            “No, no… we must have stumbled into something stranger than that.”

 

            “Stumbled into a champagne tea for two and pulled yourself up a couple of seats.” Crowley growls. “Scaring us half to death throwing your powers around. Time’s up.”

 

            It restarts, but the other two don’t rise. The angel’s husband’s jaw clicks back into place, and he seems to stare at Crowley, which doesn’t help Aziraphale’s nerves any.

 

            “We both reserved this table.” He says slowly. “Because it’s our table. Because you’re me.”

 

            He pulls his glasses off, and Crowley gasps softly.

 

            They aren’t the same, exactly. They’re… snakier. But that’s how Crowley’s eyes had looked, once upon a time. His Crowley doesn’t meet them for long, turns towards the other Aziraphale instead. But he takes his own glasses off. Aziraphale turns to him as he does, and nearly rests a hand on his arm, and stops.

 

            “Then… we’re safe, aren’t we? It’s all right?”

 

            “Yeah.” Crowley says, though not with much conviction. “Don’t worry. Obviously they’re not here to hurt us, or… we… Table’s ours, though, we’ve got our stuff already. So the _piss off_ still stands.” He adds that on for the…

 

            The other them.

 

            “We’re going to need to talk.” The other Crowley stands. “Come on, angel. We’ll have dinner. We can’t take this from… You know?”

 

            “Oh, I suppose.” The other Aziraphale takes the other Crowley’s hand to rise from his own seat, and Aziraphale feels his insides lurch watching them.

 

            Their anniversary. They do this, and they call each other ‘husband’, and—and who knows what else! Why can’t he live in that world?


End file.
